


You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Clubbing, Crowley's Moustache (Good Omens), Disco, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: After not seeing him for a few years, Aziraphale follows Crowley into a 1970s night club, where they're both going by different names but manage to find each other anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> My last minute contribution to Stayin' Julive, aka TONY MONTH! I adore this mustached demon, and he deserves only good things... so I wrote him some angsty porn, LOL. Thanks to @doorwaytoparadise for the event inspiration/organization and to @EveningStarcatcher for the fantastic beta - truly appreciated! ❤️

Aziraphale shouldn't be here.

He didn't _intend_ to follow Crowley. Not exactly. But when one lives and works in a rather central location for nighttime entertainment, and one's hereditary enemy spends, as far as Aziraphale knows these days, quite a lot of time tempting people into sin—well. Coincidences are bound to happen.

"All right there, Phil?"

With a start, Aziraphale realizes that not only has he come to a full stop in the doorway of the nightclub Crowley's just disappeared into, but also that he knows the bouncer, who is a fellow frequent patron of his favorite curry shop.

"Yes, yes, perfectly fine." Aziraphale finds himself distracted by the lights and music pouring from inside the club. He forces himself back to the moment, abruptly filled with a determination he hasn't felt in years.

"Er, James," he says. "If I—if _someone_ —that is, how—"

He can't even bring himself to ask, as rattled as he is. Crowley is in there, for Heaven knows what reason (Aziraphale hopes, very fervently, that Heaven does not know), and therefore, Aziraphale feels compelled to—to follow him. To see what he's up to, that's all.

James claps his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and grins; Aziraphale tries not to wince. "This is your first time, right?" Aziraphale nods. "Cover's on me, then. Always knew you had it in you to loosen up a little!"

He releases Aziraphale at last and waves him past the entrance with a wink. "Go on, have fun, try to meet someone. You seem like you could use it."

Aziraphale offers him a smile that feels as weak and tenuous as the rest of him. "Thanks very kindly."

*

Inside the club proper, the neon lights are nearly blinding. It's _packed_ with people: some dancing, some flirting, and nearly all of them with teased hair and in shiny outfits that reflect the changing colors being projected from the ceiling.

The modern music pounds under his feet, rattles through his veins. Aziraphale hates it a little, but it quickly fades to background noise that urges him to trip a little farther down the primrose path. He wonders how he'll ever find Crowley in the crowd.

A drink, he thinks, will settle his nerves. When he approaches the bar, though, he realizes too late that he recognizes the bartender from the neighborhood as well.

"Phil!" Andy, a fresh-faced youth who attends university nearby and occasionally pops into the bookshop with research requests, waves him over. "Fancy seeing you here, mate. Thought you'd be too posh for a dive like this, I did. With your—well, you know."

Andy waves a hand in Aziraphale's general direction; Aziraphale glances, a bit self-consciously, down at his clothes. It's true that his look hasn't changed much as of late, but he did think the ascot had a _bit_ of contemporary style to it.

"Anyway," Andy continues, "what can I get you? Not much for your fancy wine here, I'm afraid."

Aziraphale hesitates, wondering what one should order in a place like this, but before he can dither too long, he feels a hand on his back and whirls around.

"I beg your—"

"He'll have a scotch," an achingly familiar voice says. "On the rocks." A jacketed arm reaches past Aziraphale and slides an empty glass across the bar. "Same again for me."

It's Andy's turn to pause, glancing between them with some apprehension, but at Aziraphale's nod, he gets moving again. "Sure thing, Tony."

With the drink ordering no longer a distraction, Aziraphale is forced to focus on the situation at hand. Namely, that he doesn't have to search for Crowley, because Crowley's found _him_. The swoop of adrenaline that passed through him at Crowley's touch settles somewhere around his stomach.

"Phil?" Crowley asks. Even over the music and crowd noise, Aziraphale knows his voice well enough to pick it out. "That's what you're going with these days?"

Just like that, Aziraphale's back to being offended. "That is what they call me," he says with an eye to Andy, who's fortunately now preoccupied with another customer. "Besides, I could ask you the same. Tony? Not Anthony anymore?"

Crowley glances away, then back. "'S easier this decade, that's all."

Aziraphale doesn't have to ask what he means by _easier_. Lately, it's been simpler for him to pretend, too. To act like he's just another human, with a human lifespan, instead of someone who's been there since the beginning of the world and will be there until its fiery end.

"Here ya go, fellows," Andy says, breaking the moment between them. He sets down the drinks—Aziraphale's scotch, and for Crowley, some sort of orange cocktail in a glass with crushed ice. Aziraphale doesn't dare ask. "Enjoy the night, eh? Let me know if you need anything else."

Aziraphale nods in thanks; Crowley throws a few pound notes down as a tip, collects their drinks, and steers Aziraphale down to the more secluded end of the bar. They take stools next to each other with Crowley, as ever, on Aziraphale's left.

Now that they're alone, Aziraphale can finally look at Crowley properly. He's styling his hair differently than he was the last time they talked, and the glasses are new, too. Together, they frame his face to better effect, which draws Aziraphale's attention to—

"Terribly sorry." His cheeks burn as he withdraws his hand. "But you've got—"

Crowley reaches up to touch his mustache, his fingers tracing the same path where Aziraphale just trespassed. "Yeah, I'm trying something. D'you like it?"

He sounds so tentative, so hopeful that Aziraphale can nearly, but not quite, forget how fraught he left things with Crowley. They _ought_ to talk about the car, the thermos, all of it. Aziraphale doesn't want to.

"Do you know," he says, "I think it suits you?"

The smile he gets in return is so terribly genuine and infectious that Aziraphale can hardly help smiling back, nor what he does next.

"I think." Aziraphale takes a sip of his scotch and exhales; it burns all the way down. "Dancing seems to be the done thing here. I—I don't suppose you ever—"

Those golden eyes peer at him over the sunglasses. "You want to dance? Here?"

"Why not?" Aziraphale counters.

Then he does the bravest, most stupid thing he's done all night. He downs the rest of his scotch, gets up off his stool, and holds out his hand. Crowley, wide-eyed, abandons his own drink on the bar and takes it, and Aziraphale pulls him closer than he's ever dared before.

"Let's just be human tonight," Aziraphale says on impulse, practically in Crowley's ear. "Forget—forget everything that's happened. Just for tonight."

"Sure," Crowley says with a little quirk of his eyebrow. "Whatever you want. Call me Tony, then. We'll be what they think we are."

And with that, Aziraphale leads him to the dance floor.

The music is louder now that they're in the thick of it, the air thicker with smoke and the crush of people gyrating and laughing around them. None of it feels oppressive anymore, somehow. It's as if having Crowley—Tony—by his side unlocks something in him, as if he's the key to Aziraphale's enjoyment.

He doesn't have to worry. He doesn't have to _think_. He can just be Phil, just another human cutting loose on a Saturday night with a guy who, if Aziraphale is very honest with himself, he rather fancies.

It turns out that Tony's a terrible dancer, and he's not at all better, judging by some of the looks they get. It doesn't matter, not a bit. The music plays on, and the two of them get lost in it—in the crowd, in each other. Aziraphale feels more than hears himself let out a laugh when Tony gyrates comically in his direction, grinning under his mustache, the lights catching in the shiny fabric of his burgundy shirt.

He's the brightest thing in here. Beneath the smoke, in the thick of the dancing, cheering crowd, Tony _shines_.

Aziraphale suddenly wants, very badly, to catch and keep that brightness for himself. Tony's now performing a move that involves repeatedly raising one arm in the air, and Aziraphale grabs his hand on a down stroke. Tony makes it part of the dance; he spins Aziraphale in a clumsy circle, heedless of other people, and dips him while saying something Aziraphale doesn't catch.

"What?" Aziraphale shouts back.

Tony pulls him back into an embrace and rests his mouth practically against Aziraphale's ear, making him shiver. "I said, you're beautiful!"

When Aziraphale pulls back, Tony's smiling at him in an open, guileless way that Aziraphale hasn't seen in centuries. Or, no—Phil wouldn't have any context for the way Tony's eyes crinkle at the corners of his sunglasses, the way his whole face opens up without that sardonic twist to his mouth. Feeling rather wrong-footed, Aziraphale tugs on the hand he's still holding. Tony misunderstands and lets go, so Aziraphale grabs his wrist instead.

"Come with me!" He pulls again, in a direction that leads off the dance floor, and this time, Tony follows.

*

Phil would do this, Aziraphale thinks. Phil would meet a guy he likes and would let the infectious crowd and the way they look together under the lights turn his head. He would give in to the impulse to have him before the feelings fade, to take him right there in the gents'—which, Aziraphale is certain, will remain otherwise unoccupied for as long as they need it.

He and Tony would have to kiss behind closed doors anyway, in this time and place, Aziraphale reasons with a tinge of sadness before bravely soldiering on with his distinct lack of a plan.

Their mouths clash together inside the restroom, which is tiled in bright orange but still manages to look dingy under the weak fluorescent light. Tony's mustache is softer than Aziraphale would have expected, and his lips are firmer, needier than he dared remember—no. Best not to think on past trysts, not when he has this gorgeous creature in front of him, all his for this one night only.

Aziraphale presses Tony up against the wall and opens his mouth, kisses him in the style that makes it clear what he wants. Tony kisses back, a dizzying slide of tongues and mouths that soon has Aziraphale rocking against him and forgetting everything but the way he feels.

"Oh," he moans. "Oh, Crowley, do you want to?"

"It's Tony," comes the growled response, followed by a graze of teeth on his neck that makes Aziraphale gasp with pleasure. "That was your rule. If we're doing this, _Phil_ , you can blessedly well call me by the right name."

They're alone; there's no need to hide behind pretense anymore, not really. Aziraphale takes the excuse anyway.

"Of course, Tony," he murmurs against the skin of Tony's neck. "Silly me."

He moves to unzip Tony's trousers, which are shiny and practically fused to his skin, they're that tight. Tony's breath hitches in his chest. He works his hand in between them, and Aziraphale pretends he doesn't feel the tingle of power involved in getting Tony's trousers pushed down around his thighs.

"Your turn, c'mon, please. I want to see you. It's been—" Tony cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and starts working on Aziraphale's trouser fastenings.

It's been decades since the last time they did anything like this, but they aren't talking about it. That history doesn't exist in this space, not tonight. Aziraphale's rules.

He attempts to help Tony with his own trousers and pants, but mostly succeeds in getting their hands tangled up. Then both of their cocks are bobbing free, brushing against each other in the increasingly minute space between them.

Tony nips him again in the exact spot behind his ear that he damn well _knows_ is one of Aziraphale's erogenous zones, even though he couldn't possibly. "I want to suck you," he says. "You're going to taste amazing, I can tell."

Now that they're doing it, _really_ doing it, Aziraphale feels himself hesitating. Without meaning to, he flicks his eyes to the door, but Tony draws him back with a sucking kiss to the place he's just bitten.

"None of that," he says. "We're just two blokes, having it off in a public bathroom. Nothing to see here, right?" The last few words are infused with unearthly intent, meant to strengthen Aziraphale's own ward against interruptions—Aziraphale, again, tries to pretend it isn't happening. That they can just be people.

"Right." Aziraphale forces himself back to the moment. He has a gorgeous guy with him who wants to be here, who is studying Aziraphale's face with kind, steady eyes he can just make out behind the sunglasses. Who's letting Aziraphale set the pace, just like he wanted. "Right, yes. Just two blokes."

Tony looks a little uncertain in the face of Aziraphale's reticence. Aziraphale can hardly blame him. "So, d'you want me on my knees, or…."

" _Please_ ," Aziraphale says. He wants to be here, too, so much. More than he ought to say, even to himself. "Oh, please, Tony."

Tony rewards him with another nipping kiss, then slides gracefully down to his knees and presses Aziraphale back against the wall. Then he takes Aziraphale into his mouth, slowly at first, teasing him with the mustache tickling against his most sensitive skin before beginning to suck him in earnest.

The groan of relief Tony lets out around Aziraphale's cock, and the _sight_ of him down there, looking like this is the best thing to happen to him all year, are nearly enough on their own to make Aziraphale come early. Tony shouldn't, but he knows all the best ways to take Aziraphale apart with his mouth, all the little tricks Aziraphale likes—the graze of his teeth, the swirl of his not-quite-human tongue. He doesn't pretend otherwise, and Aziraphale doesn't ask him to.

With Aziraphale between his lips, Tony hums along with the disco music still barely audible through the walls. Aziraphale groans, winds his fingers through Tony's hair, and _tugs_ , urging him into a feedback loop when he gasps and moans around Aziraphale's cock—Aziraphale knows how to play dirty, too.

Tony does another wet, sucking maneuver with his lips that brings Aziraphale right to the edge, followed by his talented tongue working the vein on the underside of his cock. It's so good and so sudden that he comes with a sharp intake of breath, pulls Tony's hair in the process, and nearly cracks his head against the tile. Tony laughs a little as he keeps working him through it, letting him feel the vibrations, and swallows all of Aziraphale's come, everything he can give him.

When Aziraphale looks down at him, there's come in Tony's mustache and on his chin. He wipes it away with his thumb, which he then slides right into Tony's parted mouth.

"Gorgeous," Aziraphale says when Tony's eyes slip closed into an expression of absolute rapture.

Tony doesn't scowl or protest like he might have in another time, another life. Instead, he releases Aziraphale's thumb, smiles up at him, and rises in a way that's likely intended to look effortless. It's hindered somewhat by the stiffness of his cock, still heavy between his legs.

"Come here." Aziraphale pulls Tony close and kisses him, his hands resting on Tony's skinny hips. "Let me get you off."

Tony grinds up against Aziraphale, needy, but Aziraphale has other plans. He lifts him off his feet and spins them around—Tony may have hidden strength, but he's too thin just now, his body light as a bird—then kneels in front of him. Tony stares at him with eyes that Aziraphale can only imagine are wide and unblinking.

Up close, Tony's cock is gorgeous, flushed, and erect in a way that Aziraphale is far too familiar with. He wraps his hand around it and glides his tongue over the tip, just getting reacquainted.

"Fuck." Tony hitches his hips forward again. "Come on, get that mouth around me. I know you want it."

Aziraphale wasn't expecting such directness from him, and he finds he rather likes it. Slowly, watching Tony's expressive face the whole time, he guides Tony's cock into his mouth until it's hitting the back of his throat and his nose is buried in wild ginger hair.

The scent of him, spicy, musky, and so utterly tempting, fills Aziraphale's nostrils. Much like Tony, Aziraphale finds it hard to keep up the charade in his own head now that he's the one doing the cocksucking. He knows this body, _Crowley's_ body—he knows where to push, where to pull back, where _exactly_ to press down with his tongue so Tony makes that high-pitched, whining noise and surrenders himself fully to Aziraphale.

"Ang—Azira— _Phil, fuck_." One of Tony's hands lands, heavy, against the wall behind him as he thrusts into Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale digs his fingers into Tony's thighs to hold him still and swirls his tongue around the head. "Make me come, please, you're so good, you've always—oh!"

Aziraphale sucks him a little harder, just like he likes, and Tony reaches his peak right there in Aziraphale's mouth, filling him up with his thick, ropy come. He looks up to see Tony's head thrown back, his eyes closed with pleasure. His hips are hitched forward; his legs are threatening to give up on standing altogether, if not for Aziraphale holding him up. He's breathing hard, just a little, and his long hair is sticking to the back of his neck. 

Aziraphale did that for him, in a club bathroom where he can still hear the modern music blaring, where several of the orange tiles are now cracked from the impact of Tony's hand.

Reluctantly, he lets Tony's cock slip free from his mouth when Tony starts to go soft. Both of them could easily go again, a hundred times if necessary; neither of them mentions it.

Tony reaches out, still trembling a little, and pulls Aziraphale up. Their mouths meet, hot and messy and _human_ , as Aziraphale crowds him against the wall. He fancies he can taste the two of them together, mingled there in Tony's mouth. Aziraphale starts to tangle his fingers in Tony's long hair—and maybe encourage him to go for another round after all, somewhere where he can take those infernal glasses off—but Tony shakes his head and gently pushes Aziraphale back.

"That was fantastic," he drawls, with a little laugh that would sound self-deprecating if Aziraphale didn't know that particular laugh was only ever put on for show. "I mean it. You were really good."

"You, too," Aziraphale says. "You were wonderful."

This part is always awkward, the separation. Now that Tony's pulled away, Aziraphale doesn't know what to do with his hands. He settles for nervously twisting them in front of him and gazing at Tony, drinking him in under the fluorescent light. Tony's mustache twitches and his eyes sparkle in a way that gives away the genuine smile he's trying to hold back.

"Well," Aziraphale says, desperate to push forward, "I think that's been a bit of fun for one evening, don't you?"

It's the wrong thing to say; he knows it is before he says it. Crowley drops the facade immediately and closes his face off. "Sure. Fun. A lark, really."

"Crowley." Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley's arm, only to be shaken off. He probably deserves it. There are too many things Aziraphale needs to say and likely never will, at this rate. Big things, terrifying things, things that might get them destroyed if Crowley knew the whole shape of them. He settles for the relatively safe option. "Will you see me out, my dear?"

Another complicated expression crosses Crowley's face, full of those unspoken truths, and far more of them than Aziraphale would like. But he scrubs his hand across his face and says he'd love to escort Aziraphale out, and he pushes open the door and guides him back through the club, and he takes Aziraphale out a back door so he doesn't have to run into anyone else he knows.

*

Once they're on the street, Aziraphale realizes how much he doesn't want to leave. Not now that he's managed to run into Crowley. Not now that he's gotten the chance to touch him, hold him, share breath with him again.

"We should—exchange numbers," he suggests, a touch too brightly. "That's what people do, right? After?"

He sounds pathetic even to his own ears. Crowley scowls at the ground in response. "You have my number. You can call any time you like."

"Ah. Quite right." Aziraphale gazes at Crowley, who pretends to not gaze back. "Another drink, then? I think I still have that—"

"I'm not going back to the bookshop, Aziraphale." Crowley scuffs the toe of his expensive shoe against the pavement, and now he doesn't look like Tony at all, just himself in a new outfit—terribly old and terribly sad. All because of Aziraphale. "Not right now, all right? I need a minute. Or a decade."

Crowley turns to leave, but Aziraphale strikes on inspiration. "Would you like to have dinner, then? A neutral location, perhaps."

"Where's that, then?" Crowley turns back, giving him a look of simultaneous intrigue and disinterest, and Aziraphale knows he has him.

"Wherever you like, really," Aziraphale says. "I hear the Ritz is doing wonderful things these days, though, and I'd prefer not to go alone."

Crowley's raised eyebrows tell Aziraphale that he remembers how much of a not neutral location that is. "You want to go to the Ritz. With me. Now?"

Aziraphale scoffs. "Certainly not _now_. It's the middle of the night."

"It's not," Crowley says, but he's smiling now, just a bit of curved lip under that mustache of his. Aziraphale finds he rather _likes_ the mustache; it suits the person Crowley wants to be just now. "Yeah. All right. Let's do the Ritz, angel. Call me whenever you fancy going."

He gives Aziraphale a wink and a wave, which Aziraphale returns, before disappearing back inside the club. Aziraphale walks home alone, his head churning with new possibilities for the two of them.


End file.
